viernes, 16 de mayo de 2014

"Wattering consequences"

Miss Wattered
got enormously surprised when she perceived the slight sound of her front door
being knocked; there was a bell, of course, so why would anybody bother hitting
their knuckles against the rough, white-painted wood in the door? But then she
remembered: it was not working.

Such a mystery
invaded her tranquil morning thoughts, previously occupied with something god
only could certainly say. She herself had forgotten this high; maybe it was
something about lunch... Or perhaps that repairing her blue lacy dress seemed to
need. Finally, it could have been the splendid overcast atmosphere the sky
offered that day. In a permanently sunny country, you take a simple cloudy day
as a celebration excuse. At least she did.

Her previous
idea of this Sunday —because itwas Sunday— was a bit of a joke to
herself. "What if I wear pajamas till noon?" She had wondered sometimes...
Well... Many times before, actually. But today she did it. There were no plans
outside, so she dared.

"So,
pajamas, huh?" She started to scold herself when recovered her sense of
reality. "What a stupid idea! Going around the house just wearing extremely light clothes... Exposing myself?!" She had not even thought of it as
'exposing'. However, she was now starting to believe it was.

A third knock
made her house of cards, built with all those ideas, come down. She was supposed
to open the door, even in the stupid scenario of a mistake, even to face any
kind of misread direction or a simple parcel from a deliveryman (she was not
expecting anything, either). The point was, somebody —it did not matter who—
was out there waiting for the slightest response, waiting maybe for a narrowly-opened,
and secured with a door chain, front door of a —now quite pathetic— lady who
would never dare to open in the clothes she was —not— wearing. She wondered whether
she moved a single muscle after all that time. It was the fourth knock she
counted.

Outside, she
could see through the window behind her Tiffany-like lamp —whose lampshade by
the way needed some dusting too—, that sunlight was a mere negatively-defined
concept: partial absence of darkness. Wind was blowing strongly and even howling,
she could hear. Time was inevitably going by.

"It might
end it all if I stay all still and quiet.” she whispered to herself. It was the
fifth knock. Legs stretched with her chin over her left knee —her eyes nervously
looking at the nothingness—, a position she was comfortable with since long
ago. The same way she used to keep calm. To try to keep calm. It was the pose
she used to take back then in her elementary, middle and sometimes high school,
days.

Suddenly she
thought of something, a lightning of an idea: The new shrub in the pot by the
front door.

The stupid
shrub!

She had been
given a potted shrub by her godmother, Lilian. The old lady loved plants and
trees, so it was inevitable to receive that kind of presents from her. Her
godmother gifting had always been something to deal with —long-thorn cactus, eerie
ferns, overwhelming creeps and that sort of thing—. Anyway, this time, there
was an exception. She really liked the shrub.

The shrub was a
pretty kind of tree whose name she did not remember. Two months ago she had had
it in the back yard, until some weeks ago, when she decided it would look better
next to the front door, providing with life the small space next to the
entrance to her home. Since that day the thin shrub had been getting drier and
drier, and losing its leaves from day to day.

Putting two and
two together, it was easy to understand that the strange breeze (which was very
little to say, since it was actually more like a gale, according to the gusts
of furious wind blowing every once in a while) could be rocking the shrub and
therefore scratching or hitting, <> the mentioned door.
She felt silly and ridiculous; after all, she was the one who had forgotten to
water the poor plant in the first place.

Giggling at
first, and eventually bursting with laugh, she got on her feet and went towards
the front door with a huge grin, 'from ear to ear' as some call it. She had the
intention to open the door to look at the shrub and burst laughing again. Even
louder, she expected.

Was it the
seventh… or the eighth knock? Who knew! ...and anyway, who cared about that?

A long creak accompanied
the slow opening of the door.

"Oh,finally,
miss Wattered! I was starting to think you were not at home at all and..."
Said Mr. Nossey, the local priest, who stopped speaking as he started, holding
a pair of books under the arm. In that moment, hesitating among adjusting his
glasses or crossing himself, he could not believe his eyes.